


There's Probably a Word For This in German

by withpractice_ff



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Bisexuality, Gen, PWKM, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withpractice_ff/pseuds/withpractice_ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenaged Phoenix reacts to the news that Prop 8 has been struck down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Probably a Word For This in German

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme prompt:
> 
>  _Proposition 8 has just been struck down in federal court_
> 
>  _and I am feeling fabulous._
> 
>  _http://www.scribd.com/doc/35374462/Prop-8-Ruling-FINAL_

He's out working in the yard when he hears the news.

His father's on the mower, and Phoenix is trimming the hedges, and they've got the radio sitting on the front steps, blasting away even though neither of them can really hear it over the sound of the mower. Catching an errant note here and there, he occupies himself by trying to guess what song it might be, clipping down on the hedge to his imagined beat.

His father turns off the mower when his mother steps out onto the porch, a glass of cold lemonade in each hand. As his father takes a grateful sip of the summer elixir, Phoenix turns down the radio, blaring some new Top 40 hit at an embarrassing volume, now that the mower's off.

He sits down on the steps with his drink, wiping the sweat from his brow. It's good, helping out his father like this. He's been trying not to think about it, but it's probably little things like this he's going to miss the most when he leaves for college, just a few weeks away now.

His parents are chit-chatting behind him, talking about some neighbor or another whose name Phoenix is sure he should recognize, but he doesn't. So he lets his attention drift back to the radio, the hum of his parents' conversation becoming pleasant background noise.

The song fades out and the DJ comes on, her voice too bright for Phoenix's ears. He's always sort of hated this station--he's more into classic rock, like his mother--but his father likes it, likes to think it keeps him young, keeping up with what the kids are into. Phoenix smiles, thinking fondly of his father, when the announcer says something he couldn't have possibly heard correctly.

The world around him goes silent as he waits for her to say it again, to give him an indication that he didn't mishear her.

And then she does say it again, and this time that brightness in her voice isn't quite so grating, because it sounds so genuine. Her happiness is real, palpable.

Proposition 8 has been struck down.

The noise of the world slowly trickles back in: the dog barking down the block; the quiet whir of the passing cars; the sound of his parents' voices, uninterrupted behind him. His heart may have stopped for a moment, but the world has continued on around him.

If he had any idea what to feel right now, he's relatively sure he'd been feeling a _lot_ of it.

  


* * *

  


He hasn't given too much thought to getting married. It takes him places too confusing, so he'd rather just not think about it.

But when he wakes up the next morning, that feeling of disbelief hasn't left him. Even when same-sex marriage was first legalized in California, it hadn't felt quite like this. There had been excitement, a feeling of rebellion, of change, and it had been electric. He'd talked Larry's ear off about it, and finally Larry had said that unless Phoenix was going to marry a dude, he didn't want to hear anymore about it.

And it had occurred to Phoenix then that maybe he wasn't going to marry a man--and certainly Larry didn't know that it was even a possibility--so he shut up about it. He shut up about it because at that moment, it stopped feeling like his victory.

But when Prop 8 passed, it certainly felt like his loss.

  


* * *

  


That night, he writes a letter to Miles. He feels tense, wired. He feels the weight of something pressing down on his shoulders, and he's not entirely sure what it might be.

He writes about how his mother sat down with him last night, snuck in a moment after his father went to bed, to ask him what he thought. She'd been smiling so earnestly, something akin to pride twinkling in her eyes. And he hadn't quite known what to say. He was happy, relieved. He was a jumbled mix of emotions that didn't have a name. His blood thrummed in his veins and he felt _changed_ , just as he had the first time.

And he felt like a thief.

He writes to Miles about how his father, his father must _know_. No one has ever said it out loud, but Phoenix drops hints, pasting pictures of male movie star on his walls, joking about his (very real) crush on his Biology teacher, Mr. Gooch. And his father makes fun of him a little, telling him he needs to put away the make-up and focus on his studies, and it doesn't quite make Phoenix feel bad, but it doesn't make him feel good, either.

He writes to Miles about how even if Proposition 8 hadn't been overturned, he could still get married. And if he leaves California, he can go anywhere in the United States and get married. Because maybe he'll fall in love with a woman, and no one would bat an eye at that, he could get a big house and a white picket fence and a dog and everything would be perfect.

Everything would be perfect, unless he was with a man. Even now, they're taking Prop 8 to a higher court. And he's not necessarily confident of the outcome, not after the last time.

And if he someday falls in love with a man, even now, the validity of that relationship will be threatened, challenged.

But the thing is, he doesn't _know_. He doesn't know who this future, hypothetical lover might be. He doesn't know. And if it's a woman, and he spends all this time now feeling conflicted, persecuted, it'll be like he's been playing tourist to someone else's struggles, someone else's pain.

Except that he _is_ upset. He is upset that two years ago the people of California decided that if he wanted to marry a man, well too bad. He's upset that a victory like today had to even happen, that already it's being challenged, that there are people in the world who think there is only one right way for him to be, to live. Who think they have a right to tell him who to love.

And he's upset that he lets these people get so far under his skin, to shake him so badly that he loses his tenuous, burgeoning hold his identity, that he feels other from not just the masses but also the outcasts, isolated in a way he can't fully communicate, not even to himself.

He sighs, putting down his pencil. He's worn the lead down to a dull point, the pressure of his hand on the pencil, the paper growing as he got more worked up. The last few lines of text are dark, angry marks, desperate for someone who understands what it is he's feeling, because he doesn't. He doesn't understand, not even now, and maybe that's what frustrates him most of all.

He hesitates, putting the letter into the envelope. He's got a certain amount of self-awareness; he realizes he's all over the place in the letter, too emotional, barely making sense. But still he puts it in the envelope, writes the address on the front and puts on the stamp.

It's not like Miles will read it, anyway.


End file.
